Volume Iii Part 51 (2/2)

PHILOMELA

Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated!

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark!--what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian sh.o.r.e, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nouris.h.i.+ng in thy bewildered brain That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- Say, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moons.h.i.+ne, and the dew, To thy racked heart and brain Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English gra.s.s, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?

Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and seared eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more a.s.say Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?

Listen, Eugenia-- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!

Again--thou hearest?

Eternal pa.s.sion!

Eternal pain!

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

ON A NIGHTINGALE IN APRIL

The yellow moon is a dancing phantom Down secret ways of the flowing shade; And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper Where the alders wave.

Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper: Only the moon is a dancing blade That leads a host of the Crescent warriors To a phantom raid.

Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons, A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:-- The gray-green glooms of the elm are stirring, Newly afraid.

Last heard, white music, under the olives Where once Theocritus sang and played-- Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder, O moon-white maid!

William Sharp [1855-1905]

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blus.h.i.+ng morn dare show her light, Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight: If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune who like care pretends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite; Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, Since, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains?

The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sobbed forth, I love! I love!”

William Drummond [1585-1649]

THE NIGHTINGALE

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